Disclaimer: Dr Who is not mine.
Author's Notes: I hope one day to write a bit more of this. As soon
as my writers' block clears. So I figured I'd just post this and be
done with it.

The cluster of modern, brick-veneer cottages huddled around the main
building, an old stately home, like a squad of yellow ducklings
hanging around their mother's feet. They were small and squat, with
little beak-like verandahs off to one side. Next to them, the main
building looked large, old, and fat. It wasn't a particularly
beautiful building, particularly when compared with some of the other
former stately homes in Nameless, but it was functional.

The driver of the delivery van which was, at that moment, crunching
its way up the pebbled driveway and making its way around to the
tradesman's entrance, didn't much care for it. He particularly didn't
care for the way the tradesman's entrance passed right along side
Matron's office. The last thing he needed was to get caught with his
precious cargo of contraband.

Matron was strict. She was disciplined. She ran Dunvworpin as though
it was a prison, and its inhabitants were all criminals. In some
ways, the driver thought ruefully, she was right. Still, he added, at
least she could have had the decency not to serve prison food. But
then, some of the prison meals he'd eaten had actually been quite
tasty. Not like the muck they were expected to eat here. (With, of
course, the ever present threat of not being allowed any dessert if
they didn't eat it all up.)

Fortunately, Matron was not in her office at that particular point in
time. The driver had carefully arranged with some of the residents to
have her attention diverted for the half-hour or so it would take for
him to get his boxes inside and hidden. He pulled up outside the east
wing's rear entrance and, if he listened carefully, could hear the
beginnings of an almighty row.

Jon Doctor got out of the van and opened up the back door. He
carefully positioned the small anti-grav generators on the boxes and
they dutifully floated up into the air. Clutching his walking stick,
he herded the boxes out of the van and into the side door.

He looked around carefully before he stepped into the corridor. As
proud as he was of his disguise, he didn't want anybody to get too
clear a look at his face. Delivery men weren't supposed to be quite
as wrinkly as he was. But he absolutely had to get to the hidden
storeroom with his precious cargo before any of the regular staff came
in.

He shuddered, as he usually did, as he took in the empty corridor,
with its grey lino floors, and the walls painted that particularly
hideous shade of Institution Green. There was the noticeboard
positioned just outside the kitchen, with its roster and the meal
schedule (Jon didn't have to go and look to know that that revolting
tapioca pudding was on the menu yet again, despite the regular
complaints of the inmates.). There, just around the corridor and out
of sight, was the door to Matron's office.

The coast was clear, so he set off down the corridor. His joints
popped in places, and he could feel his arms starting to tremble a
little from the strain, even with the aide of the antigrav generators
he'd whipped up in his lab. But there was Alistair at the other end
of the corridor with Benton, both of them waiting impatiently for him
to arrive.

“Got it?” Alistair whispered tensely.

“Of course,” Jon said peevishly. “What do you think I've got in this
box? Car parts?”

“Not since Matron confiscated your sonic screwdriver and the keys to
the garage where she's hidden Bessie for getting oil on the carpet,”
Alistair chuckled.

“Then what did you bother asking me for?”

Benton rolled his eyes at the pair of them, glad that he was retired
and a civilian and didn't have to salute his former CO any more. He
was also glad that they weren't looking at him, too.

“Benton, did you fix the security cameras?” Alistair asked.

“Yessir,” Benton replied.

The three men grinned at eachother. They were about to slip into the
storage room when a voice said “What do you think you're doing?” The
voice's owner was obviously trying to sound commanding, but the age
that had sent him to Dunvworpin had taken their toll, and he only
managed to sound querulous and wheezy. “I'll tell Matron that you've
been bad, and then you won't get any custard with your apple crumble
at dinner.”

“I'll tell Matron!” Jon mimicked in a sing-song voice. “Look what
depths the Master of Evil has sunk to now! She never lets me have any
custard with my apple crumble anyway, Roger, and if you don't tell,
we'll see to it that you won't get any of what we've got here.”

Roger Master came over as fast as his arthritic knees and stooped
frame would let him. He was panting slightly from the exhertion of
shuffling the weight of his walking frame along by the time he
arrived. “I swear the nurses add extra weights to this thing in the
night,” he grumbled. “What have you got?”

Benton grinned. “Chocolate Mousse,” he replied.

Roger's eyes widened. “If Matron catches you with that, she'll cut
all your privileges for a month!” he said. “How are you going to pass
that around?”

“Jon and a couple of our sprightlier fellow inmates are going to dress
up as nurses and pass it around tonight after lights out,” Alistair
told him with an anticipatory grin.

Roger gave Jon a skeptical look. “You always get caught when you
dress up like that,” he said, “You're the worst nurse anybody has
seen.”

“Do you want to try?”

“And what are you planning to say when they notice my beard and
walking frame? That there's a fancy dress party going on?”

Alistair looked thoughtful. “That might just work,” he said.

Roger rolled his eyes. “No prizes for guessing who's the brains of
this outfit,” he sneered. “Who else is playing dress-ups tonight?”

“Mike Yates, Captain Hawkins, and Jo Grant.”

“Mike Yates? With his wheelchair or without it?”

“He can walk,” Benton said defensively, “He's been practicing –
building up the strength in his legs. He was only in the chair
because John Master took a pot shot at him with his laser gun.”

Roger automatically sneered at the mention of the newest of his
siblings. The laser gun had exploded when he had tried to use it,
suffering from the same kind of old age and faulty circuits as the
living inhabitants of Dunvworpin did. John Master still hadn't come
to terms with his confinement, and caused more trouble than the ten
Doctors combined.

At the other end of the corridor, a voice could be heard demanding
“Where is it? What have you lot done with it?” Doors could be heard
opening and shutting, and all four men ducked into the storage room as
quickly as their various infirmities allowed. Donna's voice quickly
started to sound upset as several nurses entered.

“Why is it that the only storage room that the nurses don't know about
is located between our wing and the Dementia wing?” Alistair
muttered. “Half our plans get rumbled because of her shouting.”

Jon quickly put the chocolate mousse into the refridgerator and
started to clamber out of his overalls as the sound of running feet
could be heard going past outside. Donna's voice quickly rose to a
shriek, and was followed by feet running past in the opposite
direction. “And why does it always take so many of them so long to
shut her up?”

“First they've got to figure out what it is that she's lost,” Alistair
pointed out reasonably.

“And they can't do that until she figures out what she's lost,” Benton
added.

“Her marbles,” Roger pointed out, somewhat unnecessarily.

“Can't you do something about it?” Jon asked, somewhat peevishly.
“You're a master hypnotist, you should be able to guide her back to
her memories again.”

“But that would be an act of mercy,” Roger replied with a devilish
grin. “I'm still the Master, you know. I couldn't possibly do
anything to aid you and your companions.”

The four men exchanged glances as heavier feet, clad in heavier boots
went past in the direction of the Dementia Wing. They were closely
followed by Commander Benton's voice, shorn of the wheeziness born of
age, bellowing commands.

“UNIT troops?” Benton asked curiously. “What on earth has Young David
stirred up now?”

The newest Doctor had not got any less hyperactive in his old age,
despite his legs being too weak to carry him, and what with his
continually running his wheelchair into things, he also tended to stir
up disproportionately large amounts of trouble. Although not the only
person in the Home to cause trouble, he did so most frequently of them
all.

There was a roar, and then the feet headed past the door again, this
time at a run, in the opposite direction.

“He's been fiddling with my Tardis console!” Jon exclaimed in alarm.
“How did he get into my lab?”

“Since when have you been allowed a lab?” Roger asked, suspiciously.
“None of the rest of us are.”

“I am the Doctor,” Jon replied loftily. “I shall do whatever I
please!”

Alistair was peeping through the keyhole into the corridor. “Be quiet
or we'll get caught!” he hissed. “There are nurses stationed just
outside the door.”

“Probably waiting for us to interfere,” Benton opined. Carefully,
mindful of his old joints, he lowered himself onto a box. Roger
followed his example and tottered around until he was able to sit on
the chair that formed part of his walking frame.

“I must get there,” Jon said, pacing back and forth. “There's no
telling what damage he could do!”

“He's you,” Roger said. “He would never do anything that would truly
damage Dunvworpin.”

“Not deliberately, anyway,” Alistair agreed.

“He never causes trouble deliberately,” Jon growled. He and Alistair
both sat down and waited.

They didn't have to wait long before the roar sounded again, and the
nurse stationed outside the door screamed. There was a crunching
noise, and the sound of munching. The four men exchanged glances, and
Alistair went back to the door. The source of the roar moved away,
and Alistair opened the door.

The others came up behind him, and peered out.

“That's a Drashig!” Jon exclaimed. “Great Gallifrey! Where did Young
David manage to stir up one of them?”

“And how did he get it in?” Roger asked. “He can't have used your
lab, unless you've somehow secreted a timescoop in there somewhere.”

“I certainly haven't got one of them!” Jon replied indignantly. “I
have a Tardis! What would I need with a timescoop? Besides,
teleporting Drashigs into nursing homes is well beyond the
capabilities of a Tardis.”

“You haven't got a Tardis,” Roger pointed out maliciously, “You've got
a console that isn't connected to anything because the vital component
Matron won't let you have is a big enough power cable. And even if
you did have a big enough power cable, you wouldn't have a big enough
power source. Not to mention the fact that you don't remember the
vital bit of theory anyway.”

“Are you implying that I'm feeble minded?”

As the two of them continued to bicker, Benton slipped out into the
corridor. Booted footsteps sounded behind him and stopped. He turned
to see his younger self walk up. Colonel Benton was somewhat younger,
but only by about twenty years or so.

“The last person to have access to a timescoop around here was
Borusa,” the Colonel pointed out conversationally. “What's the
likelihood of him being behind this?”

The older Benton shrugged. “Him or Young David. They are both as
senile as eachother, so it's pretty much 50/50.”

“Do you know where he might have hidden a timescoop?”

“In Dunvworpin? Could be anywhere. The place is Outside of
continuity, with a layout dependent on the needs and whims of the
author, and the Doctors suspect that this place might be a retired
Tardis anyway. We all consider ourselves lucky to find our beds every
night.”

The Colonel sighed. “I'll have a quiet chat with Matron, and suggest
that the nurses keep an eye out for it.”

Both men looked around at the sound of footsteps, to see a UNIT
trooper march up. “Sir, the Drashig has left the grounds of
Dunvworpin and headed for the swamps to the south.”

The Colonel nodded once. “Set up a permanent outpost at the closest
edge of the swamp. We'll keep an eye on it and try to stop it coming
back into Nameless.”

“Yessir,” the trooper said, and left.

“That should be a popular posting,” Alistair commented, coming up
behind them.

“There's always somebody who wants to be sent to a pestilential post,”
the Colonel replied with a shrug. “I can locate at least two of them
at midnight in the 'Round any night of the week. If you'll excuse
me...?”

They nodded, and the Colonel left. “Good man, that,” Alistair
commented approvingly.

“Thank you, sir,” the remaining Benton said, and Alistair looked at
him in surprise.

“Of course,” he murmured, remembering. “You're welcome.” He looked
at his watch. “Time for tea.”

Benton nodded, and they strolled slowly down the corridor, trailed by
Jon and Roger, still bickering.



Part Two

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